Wanderlust
by ItsALifesJourney
Summary: He knows she's always wanted to travel, to dust off the grime of the city for just a little while. Lord knows after what she's been through, what they've been through, a journey of healing and reconciliation with the wind in their faces could be just the road they need that leads to their rediscovery. ::Post Beast's Obsession:: E/O.


No baby Noah in this one. Just Elliot, Olivia, a metallic horse and the open highway. AU

Post "Beast's Obsession"

Wanderlust

Preface

He glances at the side view mirror, catching a glimpse of the bike shop as it disappears into the distance behind him.

To his right, the white-dashed lines begin to blur into a solid barrier between he and the exit signs that try to navigate him to a place that hasn't quite felt like home in over three years.

Instead, he keeps his head facing forward and tries to ignore the glaring white letters on the green sign that caution him that he's about to go off course, or maybe back on course, and that the lines between his home and _comfort that _are all too different these days are about to transition once more.

The vibrant silver handlebars grasp his attention from the corner of his eye and he mentally thanks "Mike" of _Mike's Harley Shop_ for glossing them down before he'd pulled out onto the open highway earlier.

The glare of the handles reminds him of the sun. The sun reminds him of warmth and how the seasons have changed eleven times.

An early autumn breeze ruffles the arms of his long sleeved grey t-shirt and he can feel the way it ripples against his torso in rivulets of fabric against muscle. The cool air doesn't bother him, in fact, with the heat having been so rampant early into fall, he welcomes the mixture of heat and cool.

It almost feels with the warmth of the metal and engine of the bike surrounding him as if warm arms are wrapped around him from behind and the sensation feels right. Everything feels right; the open blue sky a shade of Hydrangea Blossom, the feather-esque clouds sheltering the rays of the sun and the clean air lathering his skin as he coasts toward an expressway leading him to Manhattan from Staten Island.

He laughs softly, a chaste smile slipping over his lips. If this is some sort of midlife crisis, he's not sorry for it.

A Harley Davdison is hardly something he'd have gone for years ago but he quickly backtracks, _it's not for me, it's for her._

It doesn't take a whole lot of convincing himself, the bike is hers in all the ways that will matter. He recalls the memory of a conversation he'd been a part of over ten years prior involving traveling, white picket fences, contentment and family.

He hadn't been able to partake in certain aspects of those fantasies at the time, despite how much he would've liked to, yet something inside of him shines brilliantly at the prospect of curing some of that long forgotten wanderlust.

Or maybe it's just because of the bike.

She doesn't suspect his company though nor would he want her to but he's slightly skittish about approaching her, assuming she hasn't left already.

He's made sure to keep his presence aloof, keeping track of what's been happening from afar.

He'd almost picked up the phone and he'd even yearned to hear her voice before making this trip, but had been too much of a coward after hearing of her kidnapping then subsequent rescue, twice.

He hadn't known what to say or how to tell her how sorry he was, because a solemn call would never be enough to make up for not being there, he knows this.

He'd feared her reaction to him if he were to show up at her most vulnerable so he had stayed away.

Something inside of him has always known how much she hates being looked upon as incapable, especially in front of him, though he has never looked at her as such.

She still takes on a strength that scares him sometimes. Even her vulnerabilities look like medals of honor in a world where she takes on too much at once and comes out of it more fiercely independent and passionate than going in.

Maybe reminding her of her past fantasies will not necessarily heal her internally from all that she has suffered, but rather open her up to the undiscovered truths within her.

Healing began inside of him when he'd allowed himself to see possibilities outside of a lifetime built on routine and necessity.

He feels as if she's been fidgeting beneath a blanket of dirt caked in a routine need to right the wrongs for so long that she's far beyond her goal of making up for the truth of her being.

The truth is, she's so busy traveling on the backroads kicking up dust that she's failing to find the right exit leading to her oasis.

She's put away scum of the earth who were like the man who took away her mother, she's fought off the monsters in person, in the flesh, traveling the same harsh terrain over and over again.

That's why roads wind in different directions, he supposes, to take people in different directions than what they'd originally been determined, taught, led to follow.

He's purposely blind to the ramifications of buying an atlas at the next gas station and what it insinuates; and likewise to the possibility of having the door slammed in his face, to the sting of her palm on his cheek when she opens the door to his ugly mug.

He just lets the wind sink into his bones as it rushes through him, soothing his tight jean clad legs all the way down to his toes inside of brown leather work boots as he cruises down the Staten Island Expressway.

Inside of the atlas he'll mark a starting point.

He doesn't know where they'll end up or how it'll all unfold but he knows in his heart what direction he'd like to head in. Hopefully it's one where her arms are wrapped securely around him with the routine terrors disappearing behind them for just a little while. He'll let her fill in the rest.

To be continued...


End file.
